Yes, this is like a month late. I'm sorry. I promise to try not to abandon this fic again. I discovered that I had to totally change my outline on the fly, I've had a genuinely ridiculous number of exams and projects, and I broke my leg. Leaving an A&P exam review.

Aoshi takes his tea to the Aoi-ya's courtyard. He rests his back against one of the wooden columns and listens to the shishi-odoshi mark time. His eyes drift closed gradually, and he takes the opportunity to rest.

He never quite slips into sleep, but it's close enough. He looses his grip on the world around him, so trusting in the others of the Oniwabanshuu that he can drop his guard.

A sense of warmth near him. A presence, sunlight-bright, and a familiar heartbeat.

"Misao," he says. No more than her name, but she hears the question in it.

Her response comes swiftly. "I'm a little curious, Aoshi-sama. How did you know that Shishio had a hideout in Mount Hiei?"

"Shishio's onmitsu admitted as much." He says it without opening his eyes.

"No, I mean before, with that Sword-Hunter guy. Jiya mentioned that you…" She trails off, uncertain how to finish her thought. She doesn't need to; her meaning is clear.

He hadn't stopped to consider that he had no reasonable way of knowing that. Not in his drive to get something actionable out of Sawagejou. Aoshi spares a moment to curse his lack of foresight.

Lying to Okina about his knowledge had been one thing, and it had left him guilty enough. His only excuse had been that he could not share just where he gleaned his knowledge with his mentor. But he can tell Misao, if he chooses. She would believe him as only Hannya had.

To lie to her now? He can't bring himself to do it.

"I'll explain later," he tells her, because it's the only true thing he dares say.

She's silent for a long time, evidently mulling things over. "Okay," she says, at last, accompanied by the sound of silk moving.

Air currents. The sound of liquid sloshing — and then pouring. She has crept close enough to fill his teacup again, he realizes, only partly from the renewed warmth in his hands.

And then she's gone, vanishing back into the Aoi-ya with a laugh.

Himura returns on the first of July, slipping back into the Aoi-ya among the paying customers who arranged their trips months ago. It would seem no one pays him any mind, at least until Kamiya sees him.

Aoshi steps into the street to scan for Shishio's men. It's the only way he can offer them privacy; the street noise drowns out anything that might be said in the Aoi-ya.

When he heads back inside, Himura looks over to him with a wry smile. "I assume I wasn't followed, that I do. You would look more worried, if I had been."

"You weren't. Returning during Gion was well done." He leaves the comment about his expression alone. Himura is perhaps the only member of the Kenshin-gumi who would ever accuse him of having one, though Hannya and Misao would likely agree with him.

"Oro, is that what it is? Honestly, I'd forgotten the date. Will the Aoi-ya join in —"

"Thanks to the Sannen-zaka, we're on the third," Aoshi says.

"That's not much time to prepare, that it's not."

Kamiya looks from Himura back to Aoshi, not quite understanding.

"Okina's been preparing for some time now." To Kamiya, he adds, "Each neighborhood has its own opening ceremony for Gion. The Aoi-ya must participate, if we wish to avoid suspicion or concern."

"And you do," Himura adds, amused.

"Aa."

Kamiya's eyes widen with worry. "Aren't you concerned that Shishio could…?"

"No."

If he had said so to one of the Oniwabanshuu, they would have simply accepted his answer and moved on, but though Kamiya trusts him, she does not obey unquestioningly. She's too polite to ask, but he can see her uncertainty.

"He already has a plan. Too much is already in motion for him to change it now."

He doesn't mention that none of the Juppongatana will be willing to enrage the Gion mobs. Save perhaps for Fuji, there is no weapon to match five hundred furious hands grasping from all directions, determined to tear a man to pieces. Even the strongest steel will break against human bone, eventually.

It's the 'eventually' that would worry him, if it came to that. But he told Kamiya the truth: there is too much momentum for anyone to stop or redirect what's coming. The clash is inevitable; all he can do is prepare the Oniwabanshuu to survive it.

Sagara arrives the following afternoon. He strolls into the Aoi-ya with a mildly confused air, as if lost, and clearly has no idea who he ought to expect.

That Saitou somehow sent him their way, Aoshi doesn't doubt.

Judging by the shouting that ensues, Sagara's happiness to see Himura is only equalled by his fury that Himura left him behind. Aoshi watches Himura dodge three different — still sloppy — punches with more genuine amusement than he knows how to show. The noise draws out any unoccupied Oniwabanshuu, and Beshimi and Hyottoko begin laying odds for bets while Shikijou looks on, laughing.

After the sixth dodge, Sagara's anger seems spent and he slumps to the engawa. "It really was a rotten thing to do, y'know."

Himura inclines his head. "I thought I was protecting you, that I did."

"I don't need protecting, Kenshin. And Kaoru's strong. It's okay to ask —"

"— for help. So I'm learning, that I am."

Sagara sighs, shaking his head. "Well, at least you won't make the same dumb mistake over again. Why'd you come here, anyway?"

Shikijou steps off the engawa, laughing. "Because of us, you idiot."

"Who're you calling an idiot, you patchwork-faced clown?"

It's easier not to be angry on Shikijou's behalf when Shikijou himself rolls his eyes and laughs. "That's the best you can come up with?"

"I'm a little on the spot, here!" But Sagara's expression turns wry, and then he smiles, the same lop-sided expression — more like an overgrown smirk — that Aoshi remembers. "Shinomori. Good to see you. Good thing you told Kenshin where you'd be, huh?"

Of course he would be the one to point out the seeming coincidence. And of course he would do so in front of Himura, who is sharp enough to start wondering.

"Aa," he says. And then: "Hannya."

Hannya steps out of the kitchen, holding a knife in his left hand. His head turns as he takes in the reunion of Himura and Sagara. "Shall I retrieve Lieutenant Fujita, Aoshi-sama?"

"Yes." Aoshi pauses, considering, and adds, "Wait for dark."

"Of course, Okashira." Hannya bows, fist over heart, and then steps backward.

Just before he can vanish back into the Aoi-ya, Sagara swings an arm out, pointing. "Now wait just a minute! That guy can cook?"

All eyes turn to Hannya, taking in his kitchen knife.

"I'm learning to," is Hannya's only response before he fades from view.

It would seem even Hannya has found a place here in the Aoi-ya. The kitchen — close enough to the teashop to overhear many conversations, but out of sight — seems as good a fit as any. Shikijou laughs unkindly, but makes nothing more of it; given the thinly-veiled currents that have always passed between the two, it's as much as Aoshi could ask of him.

Himura turns his attention back to Aoshi. "If you're bringing Saitou here, after what you said at the police station…" He trails off, evidently content that Aoshi has taken his meaning.

"Yes," Aoshi says.

They're running out of time.

Hyottoko returns with Saitou just before the staff dinner hour. Hannya must not only have alerted their munitions expert to their need of his presence, he must also have told Shirojo, Kurojo, and Misao to expect additional numbers at dinner. The four of them spend an almost inordinate amount of time bringing out dishes from the kitchen.

"So you're learning to cook, huh," Beshimi says to Hannya as the four cooks finally take their seats.

Hannya's only response is to nod toward a plate of sashimi. Apparently a dish he prepared himself; Aoshi makes sure to take a serving.

Even with the new additions, Misao takes her usual place at his left. Himura ends up at the head of the table, which Aoshi finds amusing. Saitou sits at the other end, and though he leaves his cigarette case on the table, he's well mannered enough not to smoke while they all eat.

Sagara is the first of the Kenshin-gumi to comment on their meal. He leans forward, snagging more of the grilled eel, and asks, "Kenshin, you sure you have to go back to Tokyo when all this is over? 'Cause I could just stay here. I'd find a way to be useful."

"You'd break your back trying to earn my grilled eel," is Misao's response, at once cheerful and tart, as she slides the plate away from him. She doesn't add any to her plate, so she must have wanted to make sure Sagara couldn't finish it off.

Aoshi takes another serving of that, as well. He's usually indifferent to fish, but between the seaweed wrapping, the plum wine sauce, and the way the eelflesh melts on his tongue, he understands why Sagara was so fond of it.

He ends the interplay between Sagara and Misao by saying, "Saitou. You have our report — did Sawagejou tell you anything else?"

Saitou considers the question, then says, "Nothing new from Sawagejou, but I've been combing through the harbor's manifests. There's a new ship in the harbor, bound for Osaka, with a departure date of the sixth."

"Aa," Aoshi says, waiting.

"The Rengoku." Saitou inclines his head. "It's listed as a steam ship, but the ship itself appears to be wooden. Someone should investigate — and not the police."

"Aa."

Misao shifts where she sits, pouring more tea in his cup, and then says, "The plan with the black ship is bad enough — but I'm more worried about the fire. There hasn't been enough rain this year."

Hyottoko nods. "If they spread it as wide as the Sword Hunter threatened, or the sparks drift too far, the water drivers and the fire brigades aren't going to be able to keep up."

"Has the Kamo river moved?" Saitou's tone manages to be both wry and cutting.

"Because we haven't had enough rain, the river's low," Hyottoko replies, sharp. "And even if we started carrying water from the Kamo tonight, we couldn't store enough. Do you understand how much water it takes to put out even one housefire?"

Saitou says nothing. The rest of the table falls silent, uncomfortable.

"So, the best thing," Myoujin says, breaking the quiet, "is to make sure they don't manage to start any fires, right?"

"Or at least not many," Hyottoko says, pouring Beshimi another cup of sake. Beshimi returns the favor; Hyottoko sips at it before adding, "I don't see how you'd stop them from starting any fires unless you had people patrolling the whole city."

Hannya nods. "There aren't enough of us for that."

But Misao moves, nudging Aoshi with her arm. When he looks to her, she says, "Well, if we spread the word… Especially in Gion, with so many people on the streets all the time. Wouldn't that be enough?"

Omasu nods her agreement. "Don't we know just about everybody? If we tell people to watch out for troublemakers starting fires, they might not patrol, but they'll surely be on guard. At least a few people in every neighborhood."

"Can you really do that?" Kamiya's eyes widen. "Just… tell people that?"

"It's the Okashira's decision, of course," Misao says. "But we don't have tell people everything — just blame it on, I don't know, disgruntled thugs who haven't adjusted to the new era."

"There's plenty of those around — especially by the docks and the entrance to Shimabara," Shirojo notes.

"People will believe it. They'll want to believe it; everybody loves to hate the poor." There's a thread of something somber under Misao's tone, a note of bitterness, but it seems no one else hears it.

Just how well supplied was she, he finds himself wondering, during her wanderings through Japan? And then he recalls her casual theft, and suspects he knows.

"It's a start. Misao. Omasu. Okon. Begin spreading rumors." A pause, and Aoshi adds, "You too, Okina."

They all nod, and Aoshi knows the word will be flying across the city by noon the next day. He considers again, and says, "Whether or not Shishio's ship is the Rengoku, we'll need a way to destroy it."

Himura nods. "Without numbers on our side, we'll need speed."

Onmitsu reflexes mean that all of the Oniwabanshuu jerk back when Sagara tosses a small silver canister onto the table. Saitou and Himura's group stay put. Saitou and Himura seem not to regard the sudden presence of the canister as a potential threat; those of Himura's group are simply startled.

"Is an explosion fast enough?" Sagara asks, grinning.

Hyottoko snakes out a hand, picking the canister up. He rolls its fuse between his forefinger and his thumb, then shakes it next to his ear, listening closely, and finally brings it up to his face, sniffing it.

"Not bad work," he says. "Smells a little like that new stuff, dynamite, but sounds like black powder. You make this yourself?"

"Nah. My buddy Tsunan."

Hyottoko nods. "I heard of his work while I was in Tokyo. Never thought I'd see it myself. Won't be enough to take out a steam ship, but it's nice."

"I've got a couple more. Will that be enough?"

"Maybe," Hyottoko allows. He looks to Aoshi.

Strange, how easy it is, how swift it is, to hash out a plan among so many minds. Aoshi remembers all too well the late nights of the Bakumatsu, their thoughts all working feverishly as he decided the Oniwbanshuu's next course of action.

He'd missed it. Not just the work, the challenge of it, but the camaraderie.

Eventually, their plans for Shishio's ship made, Aoshi turns his mind to Shishio's opening salvo. "And the train station?"

Saitou lifts his head from his meal, eyes gleaming. "The train station?"

Beshimi shakes his head. "We found no sign of tampering, Aoshi-sama. If there are explosives there, Shishio's people have hidden them too well."

This draws Misao's attention. "But why would Shishio want to destroy the train station?"

"Symbol of the new government," Beshimi says, gesturing with his chopsticks before digging into a bowl of rice.

"But… it's not open. Nobody goes there. People hardly look twice at it," Misao says, still clearly confused. She pushes her plate away and begins stacking empty dishes neatly, as if to prepare for the inevitable clean up.

Kuro nods, taking the dishes away from Misao to stack them near the edge of the table. "You want to destroy a symbol of the new government, you'd take out, oh, the new police station, maybe?"

Okon rests a hand on Kuro's upper arm and says, "What about the plaza with the electric lights?"

Misao freezes in the middle of picking up the empty eel tray. As if hoping no one will notice her disquiet or her racing heart, she swiftly resumes her action, passing it over to Kuro.

"People go there every night," she says. "And with so many extra people in town, it must be packed just now." A pause, and then she turns his way, and he can see her horror in her eyes. "Aoshi-sama, people take their children to see the lights come on."

He remembers. And he remembers, too, the uncomplicated mixture of hunger and delight he had seen on the faces of the people gathered in the square. How much more intense would it be, during Gion, with so many pilgrims and sightseers?

Could Shishio ask for a better target?

"Misao. Your asset, the government worker. Can you find him again?"

She nods her head up and down, saying, "Of course, Aoshi-sama. Shall I go get him right now?"

"Aa," he says, and she rises from the table.

She bows, fist to her heart, and says, "If you'll all excuse me," before turning her back and leaving the dining room.

With the assistance of Misao's asset, Hyottoko and Beshimi dismantle the trap in the square. They leave just enough in place not to attract suspicion from Shishio's men.

On July third, Okina, Omasu, and Okon participate in their neighborhood's Gion opening ceremony. From what Aoshi gathers after, they take the opportunity to spread the word of the planned fire. News like that rarely stays quiet; it races across the city, shared by laundry services, housewives, hairdressers. From there, it quickly becomes common knowledge.

Aoshi spends most of his time investigating the Rengoku, hovering about the docks and watching the comings and goings, reading paperwork he shouldn't have access to.

His first confirmation comes in writing: deliveries for Sadojima have been diverted to the Rengoku. His second leaves him at once chilled and furious, choking on memories of the time he spent in Mount Hiei.

Seta Soujirou himself boards the ship. Aoshi doesn't try to follow or get closer — while the Tenken could not have received Oniwabanshuu training, and will have ears no better than Himura's, he is attuned to the movements and intentions of other swordsmen. While he may not be able to read Aoshi's ken-ki, scattered and aimless as he has trained it to be, he may well sense its presence and react accordingly.

Aoshi knows all he needs. There can be no purpose in risking everything just to observe Seta's doings.

When he withdraws from the harbor, he heads first to Saitou's police station, and then to the Aoi-ya. Himura bows his head at the news, while Sagara crack his knuckles in anticipation.

At the staff breakfast on the seventh — long before the hour of the rabbit — Okina sighs heavily before producing a bamboo case from seemingly nowhere. He reaches across the table to pass it to Misao; she takes it in both hands, staring.

"Our enemies aren't about to take defeat quietly," Okina says, and then, a little softer, "Go on. Open it."

She does, and though there's the curve of a smile haunting the corner of her mouth, her shoulders are tense.

With her seated so near, Aoshi can see the tonfa within. Okina hadn't passed along his steel pair — likely too long and too heavy to be much use, given Misao's slight build — but he'd had a new set carved. Studded steel bands circle each tonfa's shaft in three places, reinforcing it for strength and providing a new striking surface.

Misao looks up. "Where did you even find these? I mean, they're lovely, they're perfect, but how…? When…?"

Okina merely smiles. "I have my ways," he says, tugging on the pink ribbon tied around his beard.

It draws an eye roll from Misao. "Of course you do," she says, at once fond and annoyed.

It's probably strange, but that's one of the conversations he holds onto, in the carriage with Saitou, Himura, and Sagara. Those are among the words that replay in his thoughts, rather than his final briefings with Hannya, Misao, and Beshimi, or the nod he exchanged with Okina.

Misao had walked with him to the police department.

"Be careful," he had said.

And the smile that had haunted the corner of her mouth bloomed as though she were about to tell a joke, or make one of the sunlit, scattered, and surprisingly ironic observations she sometimes came out with.

"I'm just putting out fires," she told him.

These words linger, too; she hadn't touched him — not even Misao, who wears her heart for all to see, would be so forward in public — but she might as well have reached up to cup his cheek.

"If you'll promise to come back safe," she had said, "I'll promise you a city to come back to."

There are any number of things Aoshi should have replied with. He should have told her that the life of an onmitsu defies guarantees, that the mission came first, that he could only swear to try. But he'd said none of it.

"Aa," he had said, and offered the confident smirk he had shown his men, not cocky so much as self-assured. The sort of encouragement he'd always been best at.

She'd wrinkled her nose, but then smiled.

Aoshi had been the one to walk away.

Himura and Sagara fill the carriage with chatter; Aoshi listens to it with only half an ear. Saitou fills the carriage with cigarette smoke, despite the window he's opened, and interjects the occasional correction to something either Himura or Sagara says.

Between the three of them, Aoshi hears the story of this lifetime's Shingetsu village in fits and starts. Not much of substance seems to have changed from the story he knows, save Misao's absence.

And one death. The boy who had drawn Himura's attention there had not survived. It's a thing Himura would have mentioned, had it happened in the other lifetime.

His changes have cost at least one human life.

Aoshi shifts on the carriage seat, re-wrapping the sheaths of his kodachi in oil-cloth, and tries to feel less guilt.

Himura and Saitou head for the gangway, planning to board the ship openly. Sagara makes to follow them; Aoshi throws an arm out, and Sagara has the sense to stop before he clotheslines himself.

"Wait, were you serious about swimming to the ship?"

Rather than waste time asking Sagara what Aoshi has said or done to give the impression of a man who tells jokes in a war council, Aoshi says, "Aa."

"No chance you're gonna get a sense of humor tonight, is there?"

"No," he says. He checks the oil-cloth wrapped bundle that holds his kodachi one last time, then ties it to his back. "You were serious when you said you have no problem swimming?"

"I swim alright," Sagara says, offering him a lopsided grin. "You gonna be okay getting those swords wet?"

"Aa," Aoshi says.

They make their way down to one of the piers. True to his word, Sagara dives into the harbor without hesitation. He's a strange pale blur in the black water, bobbing up and down. His teeth don't chatter in the cold.

Aoshi dives in after him. He cuts through a wave, making hardly a sound, going directly under.

The swim for the Rengoku is strange. Sagara swims above the water, uncaring of noise. Aoshi stays beneath it until he runs out of breath, surfacing only for air or to check their progress. The water itself is briny, brackish — mostly saltwater, but diluted by freshwater runoff from the city. He doesn't want to think about what the ships themselves dump into the bay.

He prays it's rained recently, further diluting whatever foulness lurks in the harbor.

Eventually, they reach the wooden ship. Aoshi treads water with his legs, reaching around to his back to grab the bag with their tools. He takes out two pairs of small knives, both with kunai shapes, but longer, thicker blades and rounded hilts. He passes one pair to Sagara.

"What's this for?" Sagara asks. His voice is quiet enough that the waves in the bay nearly drown his words.

Aoshi replies, "Climbing," and then raises his arms. Gravity drags him back under the surface; he slices his arms down, jackknifing back upward, and buries one of the knives in the wood at the top of his arc. He plants the soles of his feet on the side of the ship, scrabbling so that he can arch his other arm higher.

The climb up the side of the ship is more frustrating than difficult. Behind and beneath him, Sagara hisses curses as he tries to mimic Aoshi's method.

"Well, now I know that being a ninja is a pain in the ass," Sagara says when they can finally clamber aboard. He flops bonelessly to the deck, rolling onto his back.

"This is the shallowest water of onmitsu work," Aoshi says. At Sagara's incredulous look, he adds, "You aren't a ninja until you've assassinated someone."

"You said you weren't going to get a sense of humor. I should've made you promise not to." Sagara grumbles as he stands, but he rolls his shoulders out without making another sound.

Aoshi raises one finger to his lips, then motions for Sagara to follow him.

Despite not being trained to it, Sagara can move quietly at need. His steps are almost as silent as Shikijou's would be in his place. The soft sounds of water dripping betray him more than his footsteps.

They navigate through the ship, forever chasing downwards. Aoshi uses his hearing to help them keep out of sight. They only end up having to take down three men. Sagara gets the first two, grabbing them from behind; he covers the first one's mouth by apparent instinct, but leaves the man's nose. Sagara's eyebrows hook down when Aoshi reaches out, pinching his victim's nostrils shut, and then slams a fist into the stranger's chest.

As he'd predicted, the man blacks out for only a moment, but inability to get more air soon puts him back down.

"That was, uh," Sagara begins to say, as they drag the unconscious body to a shadowy, out-of-the-way corner.

Aoshi glares, putting his fingers back to his mouth for silence. And then he steps forward, covering Sagara's mouth and nose with one hand. Sagara struggles, eyes wide, and Aoshi grips his shoulder, clamping down tighter until he's made his point. He holds Sagara that way for a beat, then releases him, only to demonstrate the tilt of hand, the clamp of fingers and thumb.

Eyes narrowed, Sagara nods. He breathes a little heavily as they continue on, and when he takes out a second victim, he does so with sharp, efficient movements.

The third time, Aoshi is the one to put the victim down and drag the body away.

That's the last person they encounter before they reach the engine room. The ship is large enough that they find four engineers within; one of them shovels coal, all but desperate to keep up with the ship's need of it.

One of the engineers looks up from a set of dials and instruments, all glass-paneled, and demands, "Who're you?"

Aoshi simply shuts the door to the engine room. The noise echoes wildly off the metal walls and floors. When he throws the bar that will block off the door, the rasp of his hands and the bar's metallic slam seem answer enough.

"You can't be here," another engineer says.

Sagara turns to him, frowning, his eyes hooked down. "Aren't you gonna give 'em a chance to run? These guys aren't exactly—"

"And have them warn others, or interfere?" Aoshi shakes his head.

"So your answer is to kill them? Right now?"

What choice does he have? What are the options for these men? They can die quickly, almost painlessly, at his hands. Or he can leave them bound and gagged, watching the spark travel along the fuse, only to die in the explosion. Or he can drag them away, bound and gagged, to let them drown.

Which of these is kindest?

But that's not how Sagara thinks. "Open the door," he says, and his eyes narrow dangerously. "Open that door right now or I will, and I know you don't want that."

He'll do it, too. If Aoshi presents no other way forward, Sagara will absolutely use the Futae no Kiwami on a steel door to get what he wants, blowing their stealth and their plan all to hell.

The engineers watch the tension between the two of them with expressions that war between hope and fear. Aoshi can hardly blame them for that. There is little worse than knowing your fate rests in a stranger's hands.

He sighs but opens the door back up. "Be glad to get out of this with your lives," he tells the engineers.

They flee the room without speaking to him. Aoshi doesn't watch them go; instead, he turns his gaze on Sagara. He watches as Sagara's shoulders drop slightly, the tightness around his eyes and mouth relaxing. It would seem he hadn't been sure he could sway Aoshi from his course.

Aoshi says nothing. What could possibly be said? Instead, he focuses on the work, on what must happen next, and Sagara seems to do the same.

The other man has found the coal storage when he says, "I guess we should have talked about what we'd do if we came across people here. It didn't really occur to me that you'd kill 'em. And it didn't occur to you that we wouldn't, am I right?"

"I saw few other merciful options," Aoshi says. "Permitting them to leave endangers our plan — but less than you breaking down a steel door."

Sagara's eyes narrow as he thinks this over. "You knew I'd do that? Hell, you knew I could?"

Sagara hasn't mentioned the Futae no Kiwami yet, and Aoshi recognizes his mistake. He should have had no opportunity to learn of it. Yet another slip he's going to have to brazen out.

It seems the more he comes to know the Kenshin-gumi, or perhaps the more time passes since he awakened to his second life, the less he remembers not knowing about them.

"I can," he says, and doesn't add that he would need both of his kodachi and a pressing reason. "Is there some reason you couldn't?"

Sagara offers him a grin. "You put it like that, then no. There's no reason at all."

Aoshi is the one to wind the fuse cord, attaching it to each of the charges. The main fuse will last about fifteen minutes, with another minute or so for each explosive. If Hyottoko measured everything correctly — and he does not doubt his pyrotechnics expert — then the charges should all go off at once. The heat of the dynamite will set the coal dust in the engine room ablaze only a fraction of a second later, if that long.

There won't be an engine room left. And if enough heat and force from the coal storage's two charges reach the hold of the ship, any gunpowder within will also catch fire. If their plan holds, the ship won't have a lower deck — it'll have a ragged, gaping hole.

Sagara kneels, withdrawing their matches from the oilcloth bag, and lights the fuse.

They shut the door and Aoshi turns the valve that will seal it. It squeaks, but they no longer need to worry about stealth. Now, all they want is speed.

The stairs seem endless going back up. Aoshi's legs begin to burn, a distant sort of pain, one he can safely ignore for now. Sagara's chest heaves as he gasps for breath. They stop at each floor, straining their ears to catch any sound of fighting.

But Himura and Saitou haven't made it past the top deck. Steel sings — at least three weapons, Aoshi guesses — and men shout, snarling curses. From the mixture of dismay, impotent fury, and outright annoyance he hears, he can assume these are men being thwarted by Himura.

"Hey, I know that noise! Only Kenshin or Saitou can get people that pissed." Sagara slants a look an Aoshi's direction, and says, as if he's being magnanimous, "Well, maybe you could. Chou hates you."

Were Aoshi more interested in wasting his breath, he might say that he's glad he's made an impression. But not only does he not particularly care, he has better things to do with the breath in his lungs, like use it to put on just a little more speed.

He clears the stairs to find Himura and Saitou both facing off against Seta Soujirou. Every so often, one of them whirls away to strike out at some of Shishio's men, keeping them from encroaching on the real battle. Seta's swings are so fast Aoshi can barely see some of them, more a suggestion of movement than a gleam of metal; Himura matches him, inch for ringing inch of steel.

Saitou's thrusts, in comparison, look almost clumsy. Seta dodges one of them almost absent-mindedly, the same way Aoshi might avoid one of Sagara's punches. Saitou's too fast and too experienced to be brought low by it; he side-steps before Seta can lash out at him to take him out of the fight. The movement is so swift it must be automatic, an ingrained reflex.

"Himura! Saitou!" Aoshi calls, launching himself into the fray. He takes little care with where his kodachi cut; it's a target rich environment and these men would all surely kill him if they could.

Saitou's head snaps up; Himura only shifts slightly where he stands, sakabatou sheathed once again as he prepares to draw, his head turning just barely in Aoshi's direction.

Sagara yells, "Time to go!" He thrusts himself bodily into the scrum, then lifts Himura up by his armpits and begins hauling him toward the rail.

Aoshi kicks out at Seta, more to force him backward than out of any hope of landing a blow. He and Seta might be similar in capabilities, but only barely — and the disadvantage is Aoshi's.

Seta tilts his head, his lips quirking slightly down, toward a neutral line, in bemusement. "Oh? Is something wrong?"

Aoshi doesn't answer him. Instead, he launches an attack on a man intent on forcing Saitou to skewer him, and says, "There's no time. It's now."

Saitou, no fool, turns and breaks for the railing. He leaps over it without hesitation; Sagara follows, minus Himura, who's won free of his arms. Himura casts a cutting eye in Seta's direction before he goes over, too.

Aoshi sheaths his kodachi before finally jumping. He hears the crack of a gunshot as he goes over, but if the shot was aimed at him, it misses.

They've just barely swum past the shadow of the ship when the charges blow. Not even Aoshi hears it, except as the sound of metal tearing, a vast rumbling and screeching, followed by bells and shouting. He'd expected fiercer waves or some sense of force, but nothing carries through the water.

The time in the rapidly cooling water seems to last forever. Aoshi's whole body aches as he heaves himself through the water, limbs shaking from the strain. He loses his grip on the boards when they reach the pier; he catches himself and keeps climbing.

They're all exhausted by the time they reach the top. Sagara flops onto his back again; even Saitou seems to feel it, crouching for a moment longer than necessary.

Once they've made their way to Saitou's carriage, Aoshi clambers in. He sits backward again, resting his head against the wall. This ride, Sagara's apparently too tired to lean halfway out the window. Saitou doesn't even try to light a cigarette; he simply leans his head back and closes his eyes. Himura, opposite him, does the same.

Aoshi doesn't sleep. Instead, he stares out the window, watching the shadows change as the country passes them by.

The Gion crowds are so thick that people throng miles outside the city, trekking between minshuku on the outskirts and Kyoto itself. He watches them as closely as he can, torn between relief and pride at how none show fear. Whatever happened in Kyoto tonight, no word of anything frightening has spread.

"Looks like the city's intact," Saitou says.

Pride wins out over relief, and Aoshi replies, "Of course. Misao promised as much."

He had known already that Misao could lead the Oniwabanshuu through Shishio's fire. Now, she's proven him right.

"Saitou," Aoshi says. "Stay here tonight."

Saitou steps out of the carriage and lights a cigarette. "Is that an offer or an order, Shinomori?"

"Does it matter? Assuming Shishio survived, he'll have retreated to Mount Hiei. Why scatter all over the city in these crowds?"

Saitou inclines his head in something that's not quite a nod. "I'd be a poor guest to return to my minshuku this late, anyway."

"Aa."

They've only just reached the door when it slides open. Hannya ushers them in and then closes it behind them. He bows with his fist over his heart.

"It's done, Aoshi-sama. The police took custody of the rank and file, and the Juppongatana have fled back to Mount Hiei."

Aoshi nods.

"The rest of us have gathered in the staff dining room," Hannya offers.

Late as it is, he understands the impulse. He follows Hannya, and the others follow him.

"Huh," Sagara says, as they step into the room. He doesn't follow it up with anything, but Aoshi suspects he sees exactly what Sagara has also noticed.

The Oniwabanshuu have seated themselves in order by rank. Okina has chosen the seat to the right of the head of the table; Misao sits across from him. Shikijou has sat himself on Misao's left, with Beshimi to his own left. The four Kyoto agents sit interspersed throughout, though he can't help noting that, of the four, Okon takes the seat of highest precedence.

In the time since Himura returned, they have never once arranged themselves this way. In fact, Aoshi can't think of a night they ever sat by rank — not even on the night he returned.

No wonder Kamiya, Myoujin, and Takani have clustered into a knot near the other end of the table.

As Hannya slides the door closed, Okina looks up from his bowl. Misao shifts on her knees, leaving her in a position similar to kiza, and turns from the hip.

She smiles as soon as their eyes meet. He doesn't force himself to smile back — Misao would never accept it, even if he could craft a passable forgery, which he can't — but he allows his jaw and mouth to relax. And he can see in her eyes, in the way her smile curves just a bit higher on one cheek, that she saw and understood it.

"Welcome home," Misao says. It's openly joyous, but between her expression and the warm tone, there's something tender in the way she says it, in the way she's looking at him, and he almost freezes.

He can't be as open as she always is, but he dips his head in acknowledgment. "You kept your promise."

"Looks like you kept yours," Misao returns.

"It's not over."

"Of course not," she says, but she leans forward, preparing a bowl for him. It's just weak tea over rice — bubuzuke — but then she throws in a few pickled vegetables. He sees a few trays of sashimi scattered around the table and, as he sits, he pulls one toward himself.

At the opposite end of the table, Himura settles himself onto the floor. Myoujin wrinkles his nose, saying, "You guys smell like crap. Seriously. What happened?"

"Don't swim in harbors," is Sagara's only response.

"But you're all okay, right?" This from Kamiya, who sports a sling and a troubled expression.

Sagara grins. "Not a scratch."

And, of course, Saitou scoffs. "Speak for yourself, bird brain. While you were off playing ninja, we were dealing with the Tenken and a rifle squad." He accepts a bowl Hyottoko passes him, eyeing it as if disappointed.

Aoshi closes his eyes and quietly hopes Saitou will say nothing on that matter. He doesn't have the heart to stop Misao from throttling him. He can almost hear the rant now: if Saitou wants a kaiseki meal at the hour of the ox, the kitchen's to the right and he can damn well prepare it himself.

But Saitou doesn't remark on the bubuzuke, and Himura says to Kamiya, tone placating, "I wasn't hurt. Soujirou did no more than scratch me, that he certainly didn't."

"That he could scratch you at all sounds like a problem," is Takani's tart response. "I want to see that scratch before you go to bed." Even as Himura murmurs, 'oro,' Takani turns on Sagara. "And you, you spiky-headed idiot, let me see that hand. I didn't like the look of it yesterday, and I've known you long enough to know you'll only have made it worse."

"I barely even punched anybody, Megitsune," is Sagara's token protest.

Aoshi turns his attention away from them and toward the Oniwabanshuu. Omasu and Shirojo stop their quiet conversation, and Okon stops dishing up food, as soon as they sense his interest.

All eyes at their end of the table turn expectantly to Misao. She led the operation in Kyoto, after all.

Misao draws in a breath, sets her bowl down, and says, "No big fires, no one in the Oniwabanshuu seriously hurt. All of Shishio's foot soldiers are either — they're either dead or arrested. Some of them tried to run, and the others turned on them. Especially the Juppongatana — honestly, it seems like Shishio's hand-picked crazies did most of the police's work for them."

Not a detail he recalls hearing mentioned, but he can't say it surprises him. As best he can tell, one of the greatest weaknesses among Shishio's people had been fanatical loyalty to him, but none toward each other. It's the only possible product of Shishio's philosophy.

How strangely perfect, that a group of onmitsu who have always viewed each other as family, precious and irreplaceable, should number among those opposing him.

"The Juppongatana?"

Misao knows him well enough to know he's asking their status, not questioning what she says they've done. She says, "We only saw three, and two of them have run, probably back to Mount Hiei. Kaoru-san and I took out the one with the scythe. He's in a jail cell now."

Another detail that may or may not have changed from before. But Aoshi only nods, wondering which of the seven left in Kyoto had been present for the fire.

Their late meal turns into another planning session, if an exhausted one. It means hashing over every detail from the Rengoku, but they all come to the same conclusion: Shishio most likely survived. The work isn't over.

When they finish, Aoshi once again joins Misao when she carries dishes off to the kitchen. She moves with an easy grace in her new uniform, and her braid bounces as she moves.

It takes him a few minutes of carrying dishes after her to recognize and understand what he sees.

Her braid looks several inches shorter, and she's secured it with a ragged scrap of twine that hangs unevenly, rather than her golden clasp.

When they're alone in the kitchen — Misao dunking and rinsing dishes while he dries them — Aoshi asks, "What happened?"

"The scythe guy," she says, tone sour. "I went in close to control his range. He grabbed me by the braid, since it was right there. I cut it to get away from him."

"Your hidden dagger?" It would explain the way the braid seems lopsided, all but ragged.

"Yeah," she says. She hands him the last bowl and sighs. "At least getting thrown around by my head was a good cure for stupid, I guess. I'll be pinning it up from now on."

"Inexperienced," he tells her while he tries to find part of his rag that isn't damp. He tosses it at the pile of rags on the table, the one close to the door, and grabs a fresh one.

"Hm?"

"You're inexperienced. Not stupid," he says, turning away to set the last bowl in its place in the dish cabinet. When he turns back, Misao stands by the door, offering him a warm smile.

She blows out the candle, and he follows her from the kitchen. Without needing to discuss it, they both step into Okina's garden. The jasmine has bloomed, its scent rich and sweet, but they pass it by, stopping at the edge of the pond with the shishi-odoshi. Okina planted irises there at some point, blue and purple, and they're in bloom, too, the colors washed silvery in the moonlight.

Misao tilts her head back to look at the night sky; he doesn't bother. He'd rather watch her.

"It's hard to believe it's almost over," she says. "We've been preparing for this the whole summer."

"Aa."

She turns to look at him, offering him a smile. It curves high at the corners, mischievous rather than tender. In the dim garden, lit only by stars and moon, her smile is brighter, clearer, than her eyes.

He says her name — and even that is hard for him; it comes out rough, like he's having trouble speaking — and her gaze sharpens on him. He'd already held so much of her attention; now, he has all of it. He doesn't know what to do next. The things Misao wants to hear, the things she deserves, they're all things he doesn't know how to say.

Her smile turns tender for a moment, and he hopes she's understood. But when she turns away, he realizes that she hasn't.

"Rest well, Aoshi-sama," she's saying, and he can't let this night end here, without her having taken his meaning.

So he reaches out. His fingers close lightly around her wrist; if she'd worn sleeves, he would have caught her there. But at his touch, she stops, going so still that he has to listen to make sure she's still breathing.

"Misao," he says again, but he still sounds like her name is the only word he knows. And as she stares at him, he lets his fingertrips drag down, away from the hot hammer of her pulse beneath them, toward her palm.

This, at least, she understands. Inappropriate as it is — were they not onmitsu, it would be a scandal, for her to so intimately touch a man not her husband — he can have no other object in mind. She seeks him out, until at last their palms touch, and then their fingers intertwine.

His hand all but eclipses hers. Her skin is warm beneath his. When he presses down, she squeezes back.

Rather than say her name a third time, he tells her, "You did well."

No electric light could ever hope to outshine her answering smile.

The sight of it — it's like that warm touch of her hand crawled inside him. It's with him even as he releases her, even as he turns away. It lingers even as he strips out of his uniform, stiff from the saltwater and everything else in the harbor, and collapses into his bed.

Aoshi still sleeps with his kodachi in reach.